The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.

It should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can. The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is the same for …

My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.

Don't order one for the road, because the road is already laid out.

If the expedition had failed, which it might well have done with all hope centered in just one plane, I should still be trying to pay back my obligations.

A cold coming they had of it, at this time of the year; just the worst time of the year to take a journey, and specially a long journey, in.